// dream lover //

Gently, gently, gently, lover, over and over it seems I am new to my own anatomy, just learning how to breathe, how to behave and temper impulses, understanding where my pieces go, how to open my arms, my throat, my veins and walk in the punishing daylight bleeding. It’s not gentle enough when the nocturnal air moves his poisonous breath against my vacant, expectant skin and I need you to be softer, softer, softer still. Touch me like dark feathers sifting, falling lightly through the collecting fog and I will begin again on my knees at your feet.

Folding these hands, bending these wrists, teach me to speak with your tongue.

I am only a whisper easy to suffocate but impossible to break; a dangerous intimacy that drips inside a second heart most stab at in nightmares trying to deny. Such force, such resistance, such loss. I am the freedom of velvet ropes that bind you to tears of grateful orgasmic release. My way of living emerges in spheres that penetrate and overlap, illusions pressed against the milk white legs of a shifting reality.

May I possess you, may I enclose you, may I appear alongside of you as you rage against an open sky and become the shedding of your veils, your fears, your widening eyes.  My way of dying into my own bare flesh occurs behind the command of your silence, my way of focused, curious adoration is the way a ring of sapphire candles is a beckoning portal in the back of your volcanic mind. A slip into another time and place, where pleasure is sacrifice and ecstasy thorough, to hold back is to forfeit everything we gnash our new cut razor teeth trying like mad to become.

You and I: shadows standing back to back, watchfulness reflected. When I reach for the stars I know they are birthing each other, blurring too heavily inside me and I’m trying to go home. I search in wet purple evenings for the redemption pulsing in time to the way you look at me; your every masterful movement is the closing of trap doors, of prisons, of ruby studded cages strung up against the ceiling of skyscrapers but my god, angel, how we decorate each other.

How we expose one another on the willing altars of this fragile faith in dreaming.

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// fall from grace //

Tracing the outline of my open lips as I stand before the floor length mirror, I imagine pressing my dark eyelashes together and leaving this blue electric mind for just long enough to go beautifully numb. Not the kind of numb where you don’t feel anything at all but the kind where you still feel the warm pressure of fingers and it doesn’t frighten you, doesn’t hurt, doesn’t tempt you back to the kind of life that feels like plastic sheets over everything you were told you could touch.

A kiss the taste of jasmine and warm vanilla before everything became so sterile.

It’s not that I don’t want to reveal myself it’s that I’m terrified there is no way to warn you of what’s beneath this withering skin. We are all pretending, peeling, receding, removing ourselves one thumbnail, one fang, one whisper, one blink of a down turned eye at a time even as we dig our heels in and try to stay on the sane side of honest.

To move forward is to slip screaming under the ice, to break is to relieve the ones who don’t believe in love. I don’t want to pour what’s left of the ink into half the words that lay themselves undressed at my fingertips but this isn’t me, if I knew what was I would try to protect you from it.

As I move my fingers down along the soft curves of my body, there are shadows bending over the back of this tired day when lighting a cigarette is the sweet claw of knowing I don’t quite fit in, the inconvenience of my mismatched presence here is fading but palpable. It’s possible to feel at the same time like raven wings the breadth of the clear midnight sky and like even the gentlest hands would fall short of opening your barbed wire heart. I know this now.

What I am in the dark is condemned and torn away from me in the light, and in the glare I forget where my feet belong: which hours of the night am I, which collections of which moments, which seasons of which days? I try to console myself by remembering it’s not me they want anyway, it’s something beyond any of us, something vastly, infinitely more loving and severely less infatuated with being seen, being heard, being accepted.

Some kind of sacred alien thing so fierce, so substantial, so insatiable it devours itself and continues to exist. A hunger without the terrible pain of going hungry. A thirst that needs only itself, never goes in search of a drink beyond its own infinite pools. Something that pleasures us to tears of everlasting fulfillment.

Sometimes when I am stuck, when the urge to open up is butterflies thrumming in nets in my ivory chest, I think of the way you handle everything – people, poetry, phrases, books, rejection – so lightly, so effortlessly, so graciously and gracefully. I imagine the warmth of you and the world sleeping in your benevolent hands and wonder how you would handle me if my breasts were fire instead of flesh, if my insides were venom instead of honey.

There is a kind of affection that grows its own womb out of its own tenderness and hangs it in the center of the hands of its creator; I have felt it, cradled it, made love to it in dreams that dissolve in the dust of morning sunlight falling warmly through the curtains. You and I in this makeshift house far away from home. We were made to bow down to a thing we cannot grasp even as it holds us firmly from within, and yet how far we have fallen, how lost we have become.

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// broken arrows //

Some days are the fullness of tongues in excess. I know I ask for more than I deserve and I wish I knew how to help it, how to stop, how to escape, it seems as if this is how I was strung together by a god who should have known better, should have been less cruel and more clever. Some kind of laughter that tastes like wine in a chalice thrown from an angry plastic heaven, still I swallow too ungratefully and crawl inside. I’m not always pretty, I’m not always kind, I’m not always the way light trickles, sparkles, strokes like angel wings falling down my fragile spine. All I ever wanted was to tell you a story that feels like a lover you’ve not yet breathed against but have imagined emerging from the hungry heaving ocean waves for lifetimes, night after night the moon would lust to enter the sea. That’s what these words are if only I could get them right: a shape, a figure, a curve, a dark cavern, a passage into another world where you exist in endless flow, smoothness, salt, and the flavor of chaotic, rhythmic, liquid emotion. Tell me the words are crystal sugar froth, tell me you would wait out eternity to be so torn by a language you’d long since forgotten, but the sparking in your jaw recognizes as truth. And if that story were to move you, stir you, deliver you, take the words, take them, take them, thread them through the bending of your flesh and let the soul you bleed for sleep. Even as I write these my troubled manic thoughts they are fugitives, they are train tracks, they are ship wrecks, they are hopeful dreamer’s dreams. These words I plead for, take them, take them, they are yours.

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// stranger in me //

I will write it all for you in golden bound volumes, reach into your chest and pull your seven headed demon hearts out for you and ask for nothing, but please understand me, lover, I absorb everything. There is an electricity in everything I touch, everything I encounter becomes spitting, surging, violent evolution within me.

Will you stand with it?

Will you drink from it?

I am the glow and the vacancy of failures, mistakes, torments, unfinished kisses, the wreckage and carnage of longings, stretched and starved beyond my control. I seethe, I breathe, I need, I crave. I summon with every cell the savagery and revelation of the depths of lustrous, compassionate love. My tongue is forgiveness, my body is sacrament, my pain divine and generous. And even as you, behind the mouth panting in your eyes, stand still before me, I can feel your energy like stacks of steel cities crashing through storm clouds, slamming into a frightened earth like meteors, all the world is dust and flame: for you. The frame of your features is my falling toward you and away in equal measure.

I shatter with desire and all I need is for you to try to hold onto me.

Curiosity is the only faith, those who condemn the curious are a threat only unto themselves. Where the liquid wings of mystery are severed, the punishment for sins not committed begins, sadness of the distorted ages steps in. Welcome to my universe where I am in bed with life and death in constant, my mind always chewing, chewing, chewing and the more I surrender the more appears, like throwing my body against a mirror. I write every syllable in spite of every other mad impulse that snaps and explodes inside of me, walls begin at the tips of my feet and extend themselves far off into the darkness I recognize, trust, but can no longer see.

Voices on the edges of my hands. Noises like the opening of doors, slowly, upon lovers in the ecstatic moans of headless, mindless pleasure. Love is forbearance and some things are just easier to believe.

I am a world of worlds inside, we melt, we burn, we regenerate, I breathe and new life begins, I shed tears to bury what’s dying inside. I have become the one who pulls at the tide of the oceans with her fists, raises mountains and even as I stand still the planetary spheres I reach for are spinning, spinning, a river of private thrumming conditioning runs through me in constant. and as my pieces are wrenched and separated they are sealed together by the nectar dripping at the pressure of my own compassionate hands, my ever-loving alien eyes turn forever inward, inward, inward.

I am strange and I am a stranger. Know this as you touch me, remember this when I am gone. For everything you offer me I submit myself to willingly, and everything you withhold becomes my naked longing need.  The silent night comes on like the smoke of addiction; my criminal love, you take me with you in the marrow of your beautiful bones.

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// iron boxes //

You reach for me but I am a void, I am a hellish collision of dying worlds inside. These cruel words hang me on the wall and leave me there, exposed, afraid, unraveling, alone. And I’ve been writing, baby love, writing, writing, awful, awful, terrible writing, it ought to be a crime these unforgivable lines slashed in defiance against borrowed time, wretched incoherent manic overflow like bleeding an animal of poison, I’ve written one hundred journals in a mouthful of days, page after page, one more useless than the one before, stacking them, digging them, dragging them through the mud and the rage with me. Please don’t touch me anywhere, I am fever. My eyes finally adjusted to the darkness of this strange religion, where wings are clipped and spread at will.

Still as a cradle robbed of death, but for the smooth motion of the weapon in my hand, and the raking in my brain, and the slamming in my chest to the beat of city after city dropping to their weakened knees, I’ve kept on like the possessed searching for something. Moon rise, moon set, I have not aged since birth and I have never been so sure I’ve died too many times, I am only a pale reflection of myself, the blue fade of a forgotten lust for beautiful sins. The days have been rusted white cages, feathered ink, lace candy legs, something is dark and tethered inside me, darting its many faces in and out of the brush. Something nameless in me that I can’t seem to clutch, needs a love beyond anything the world can produce; a flower opens itself to an empty room.

And I am trying and I am failing, and this thing, this need that swallows itself into me – it is still waiting. All the world is wasted panting breath and me on the wall, and these words like ears on such abysmal pages, we are all waiting.

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// i promise you this //

Collecting what’s left of you when it’s over is trying to keep a flutter of moth nerves alive in a shot glass between my teeth, but I don’t mind the knots in the stomach; perfection doesn’t interest me.

When I look at you I watch the passing of decades in blinks, frames of your limbs, centuries of humanity in ecstatic heat, angels sucking lollipops singing in haunting orgasmic tones, their celestial lips stained all colors of an erotic rainbow, worshiping the sun as it molds us into mystical creatures, no longer recognized with natural eyes.

You and I at dusk, watching dragons slip into a boiling turquoise sea, hold hands to form a bridge across the myths conjured to keep us apart. They never thought love could be such a twist and still be real. You are sustenance, food, truth. The desire you feed me catches mountains of leather books on fire, consumes and destroys all that’s cruel in a mindless world. I savor the way you taste like the dew on the grass of an ancient burial ground, touch like the climax of the Northern Lights.

Your body is a clever animal, a dark secret on the lips of a coming tragedy. Sinister, fleeting, a mystery to be respected for the delicate timing in which it unfolds. Your tongue is a velvet plunge, a warmth, a hearth in a place beyond this temporary home. Sins turn to pillars of beautiful glistening dust while every earth-bound creature wears the head of a lion underneath its fingernails, baring its blood thirst to the valleys of the moon.

Love is a ritual bath, a river carved through an underground tomb.

Quiet madness staring itself in a plush hungry mouth: you want me wet with curious struggle as a piano plays itself in an empty room.

The way the veins pulse down your neck is the way you dismiss the things that no longer matter to me, love is thinner than gossamer wings, slender heaven folded in its milky beats. We are exposed, skin peeling itself away from the bone, naked in a way no one else can understand for you and I have mirrored the birth of each other; we, held and released in silhouette dreams that began before the beginning, before there were words from which to choose.

The world ends the moment you remember when candles were tiny flickering stars flinching, licking at your fingertips, and I was dancing for you in the shadows, in the rise and fall of jewel-cuffed arms scratching against the concrete walls.

I adore the heavy smoke, the crimson choke of your handsome resistance.

Tracing my body slows the crumbling, you remove the silk along my sides and enter into me as the globe in all its casual blindness spins away from itself. Oblivion is thick nectar on the ivory altar of the gods, fame is for the fearful: only the brave will be devoured, forgotten.

Watching you from above is black feathers falling from a white snow sky.

Beauty is eternal, pleasure is a lifestyle, and I take my love stranger than most.

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